


We Started as Strangers

by deareststars



Series: NX300, Serial Number Not Found [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fainting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pre-Canon, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Rehabilitation, Slow Dancing, Strangers, Swearing, how long it is depends on my mood lol, it describes how lena and bryan met, this is only specific to "programmed for deviancy"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 15:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18264452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deareststars/pseuds/deareststars
Summary: Bryan Lockhart was, in all honesty, a recovering addict. He was fresh out of rehab and quickly broke that streak when he stumbled into a bar on his way back home.But then he woke up in the apartment of a pretty, little brunette, who may have just gave him a shot at getting his life back.Because the sun seemed to shine brighter when she smiled.---prequel to "programmed for deviancy," set about three years before the beginning of the novel





	We Started as Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> so i just had a sudden rush of inspiration, and i love my wonderful wedded couple that i made up on the fly and didn't expect to ever put them back into the book, but here they are.
> 
> aaa my everything hurts and i should be doing geometry homework but y'know fuCK THAT AMIRITE

Bryan Lockhart, a man with black hair and an unapologetic alcohol addiction, stumbled his way through the dimly lit rehab center, his mind completely focused on just getting the hell out of here. He passed by a few of his old friends, people who gave him smiles as he passed and whispers of luck, and he managed to give them a wave back but all he wanted to know was the location of the exit and how long he could keep his feet going left, right, left, right, down the hallway and spinning back around when he knew he was going the wrong way and making a right when it seemed like it was.

 

Finally, he came to the front desk, and the man behind it rose an eyebrow. Bryan knew what the guy was thinking. "Six months, and you'll be back again. We know how it goes." But he didn't care. He just wanted out of this hellhole, where the nurses judged him for breathing and the recovering addicts around him all had that same haunted look he had in his own eyes that he just wanted to _stop._ He wanted to know how to feel again.

 

The guy stared at him for a few more minutes, then slid a Ziploc bag with Bryan's few belongings under the window and a dark blue sobriety chip with them. Bryan's hands were shaking as he took everything, slipping his watch and beanie onto his head and holding up the chip with a grim smile.

 

The receptionist knew what the smile meant.

 

He was going to be back.

 

They all knew it.

 

But when the guy smiled back at him and waved his hand in a farewell, the farewell felt about as final as all the ones that had come before it, but it was nice to know that they still had faith in a fuck-up like him. It was nice to know that people were still interested in acting like they believed in him. He was so damn tired of doing it for himself, he just wanted someone else to find the good in him that he knew he lost.

 

He opened up the door, and the winter air outside was nice and calming and forgiving. It breathed life back into him, made him feel like he was human again. Compared to the pale glow of the moonlight, even he was tan and well, and he thanked nature for that. He pulled his beanie down further over his ears, trying to hide their redness, and made his way down to his apartment. The fridge was void of any and all food and drink, but he knew there was a convenience store just down the block that he could hit up. The food would come first, and he would spend the next few days convincing himself he didn't need alcohol before the struggle of recovery hit him full throttle and he gave in.

 

It always happened like that. It's always been that way.

 

He gave up on changing it a long time ago.

 

A drug dealer stared at him as he passed, fixating his eyes intently on the bulge of a wallet in Bryan's front pocket. He ignored the man, eyes focused straight ahead and never diverting away from their prize. He already had to deal with one addiction; he didn't need another to screw him over in the long run.

 

He couldn't remember the last time he looked down at his body and didn't feel an overwhelming surge of blurriness, like everything about him was something that needed to be fixed. Alcohol somehow made the lines clearer again. It made him seem like he was human again.

 

The further he walked, the more he became aware of the hunger pangs settling inside of his stomach. He hated the food they served at the rehab center. It was devoid of any spices or taste, and the water was just that - water. What, was he going to get high off of fucking sugar or something? Bastards. He doubted they knew what he was going through, no matter how many sympathetic or empathetic or whatever-thetic looks they gave him.

 

Then again, the looks were probably fake. They always were.

 

He gave up on convincing himself it was any other way.

 

He wrapped his arms around his stomach. The hunger pangs turned into more than a craving for food. He craved the feeling of a slender neck in his hand, the feeling of alcohol curving down his throat, the feeling that, no matter how screwed up he was, there was always the next day and the next day and the next day for him to get better.

 

The next day and the next day and the next day that he would find someone who cared enough about him to give him a permanent solution rather than the temporary one of a rehab center.

 

The next day and the next day and the next day...

 

Well, he'd find out what he thought about that 'next day' later.

 

He woke up in an unfamiliar warmth. His apartment was always cold and dingy. All that time that he spent in medical school, scraping together enough money to go through the twelve years and get his degree in artificial surgery, and he spent it wasting away inside of a cluttered and cramped studio that was overpriced and overrated. Detroit was a shitty city to grow up in.

 

He opened his eyes, feeling them stuck together with mucus and tears, and looked around the room as best he could. His headache was something he hadn't felt in a while, and dazedly, he wondered if maybe he had blacked out and gotten a drink without realizing it.  _So much for getting that copper coin,_ he thought dryly, managing to sit up. The headache increased in number and he let out a groan, clutching at the sides of his head. Instead of one angry man beating at the inside of his skull, it felt like fifty were using ice picks to scrape away at his sanity.

 

He kicked the blankets off in frustration and felt a chill run down his spine. Grudgingly, he picked the blankets back up and wrapped them around his shoulders, then slowly stood up, using the bedframe as a support. Now that he was up and moving, the headache was shoved to the back of his mind, and he was able to look around the room.

 

It was quaint, painted a pale shade of yellow that didn't mess with his vision as much as he thought it would. The bed was made with white sheets and a pastel blue duvet, a large cat pillow serving as a body pillow. A fluffy white rug was shoved carelessly under the bed, and a dresser painted a shade of off-white was put in a similar manner into the corner of the room. If he had to describe this room, he would immediately choose 'warmth,' but also 'nostalgaic.' He didn't know what gave him that impression, but something about the paint and color scheme made it seem as though the occupant of this room was desperately clutching to the throes of a time long passed, of a time where things weren't so screwed up and everything was still right.

 

He would know. His room was done in the same manner.

 

It helped him convince himself that he was doing okay. It helped him convince himself that he  _was_ okay.

 

But he gave up on convincing himself of that a long time ago.

 

The door slowly opened, and a petite brunette stepped into the room. Her hair was chopped short, as though she'd taken a pair of safety scissors to dead tips and accidentaly bit off more than she could chew. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of brown, kind of like the hue you would see if you looked down at a mug of pure hot chocolate without any additives. She wore a long cream-colored sweater, her nose red and runny and the tips of her ears a similar shade.

 

"Hi," she said with a small smile. She held something out to him, and Bryan realized that she was holding a tray of food. A stack of three Belgian waffles was carefully decorated with strawberries, whipped cream, and syrup, and a glass of orange juice was set next to it with equal precision. "You stumbled into the bar I worked at. My boss told me to either take you back to your apartment or to mine, and since I couldn't get a comprehensible answer out of you, I decided to take you here."

 

He blinked slowly, realizing that nothing was in high definition because he wasn't wearing his glasses. Instead of asking a sensible question - such as, "What's your name?" because that's how normal people conversate, you dunce - he blurted out, "Why did you bring me into your apartment? I could very easily be an axe murderer or something."

 

She rolled her eyes and put the tray on the bedside table, then turned to him with her hands on her hips. "Y'know, a 'thank you' or something would be appreciated," she scolded. "I could very easily have pushed you back out into the cold and ditched you there. For the record, you're incredibly heavy. Not to mention you were drooling and mumbling in your sleep and I would also appreciate if you weren't six fucking two."

 

He blinked. It had been such a long time since he'd actually had a proper conversation with another human; were all people like this? Still, she had a point. People weren't naturally this nice, especially to (recovering) alcoholics like Bryan. He managed a thin smile that felt more like a grimace and rubbed the back of his head. "Erm, sorry. Thank you for the breakfast and for letting me in, oh gullible savior of mine."

 

The sarcasm wasn't missed, but the brunette seemed to have already moved past that. Her hands came down from her hips and she let out a sigh, shaking her head. "People in Detroit are so weird," she muttered. She looked back up at Bryan and leaned closer, cocking her head as she pursed her lips. Bryan felt a confusing sensation of...embarrassment? He felt like this girl shouldn't be so close to him. Or maybe that was just the superstition around alcoholism putting words into his cotton mouth.

 

_It was never the superstition,_ a little voice cooed into his ear.  _It was always_ you.

 

He gave up on thinking something would put these thoughts into his head.

 

"Go ahead and eat, stranger," she finally said, going back down onto the balls of her feet and pointing behind her. "The bathroom's right across the hall, and I'll be in the living room if you need me. I'm not going to be working until six o'clock this evening, so if you ever need to talk or rant or just do anything let me know and we can try to set something up, alright?"

 

Once again, Bryan was taken aback by her verbal charge, and it didn't click that she was starting to leave until the door began to creak closed. He snapped out of his position and turned around. "W-Wait!"

 

The brunette paused and looked back inside, an eyebrow cocked. "Yes?"

 

Bryan worked the words around his mouth, trying to figure out the best way to put them, then finally spit three words out. "What's your name?"

 

She let out a surprised laugh at that. Her hip clipped against the door and pushed it back open a little, and Bryan felt his heart skip a bit as the sunlight streaming in from outside caught her eyes in just the right way. God, she looked...like the complete opposite of him, personality and appearance and all. How the hell could someone still be so optimstic about the world despite everything it did to fuck humanity over?

 

"It's Lena," she said. She walked back into the room and stuck her hand out, looking up at him. "What about you?"

 

He looked down at her hand like it was going to bite him. His mind was still swimming from everything that was happening, and for a moment he really did see fangs and a forked tongue appearing like a mask over her fingers, but he blinked again and they disappeared. He took a subtle breath to reset his mind and shook her hand tightly. "It's...Bryan."

 

"Bryan, huh." She smiled, a warm one this time instead of the polite one she'd given him when she'd first walked in. It was strange how a simple name would be able to shift his perception of her. Lena seemed to fit her so well; it spoke of positivity and warmth and hope and...

 

...everything he didn't have.

 

"Well, I'll see you around, then." She started to walk out again, but pointed sternly at the plate on the table. "Don't get any crumbs on the bed, sir. I didn't spend all of yesterday doing laundry for some freeloader to mess it up."

 

He nodded slowly, not sure how serious she was being. "Yes, ma'am," he said, doing a lazy two-fingered salute. She jerked her head at that and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her to give him some privacy while he ate.

 

Bryan sat back down on the bed and took the tray to his lap, slowly eating the waffles while his stomach adjusted to having sweets on his menu again. He took a sip of orange juice and worked it around his mouth, trying to think about what was going on with everything around him - Lena, her cheerfulness, the way the sun outside seemed to shine brighter, and how the dark weight in his heart seemed to be ever so slightly lighter as well. He put a hand over his heart, almost dropping the waffles as he did, and squeezed his chest.

 

He thought that, a long,  _long_ time ago, he had given up and abandoned any hope of anyone ever caring for him. He had tossed that thought into the gutter with the rest of his self-respect the moment he popped the cork off of a bottle of whiskey and took his first swig.

 

But maybe,

 

(just maybe),

 

he could convince himself, just this once, of otherwise.


End file.
